fucking stupid communist fucking whore!
It was a good thing that John was in the nick at this point. I remember the last time Gordon had ranted about Thatcher's treachery, John had been standing leaning against the patio doors. He stiffened up and turned around. — Hi! C'moan Gordon, it's no Maggie Thatcher's fault. The best fuckin leader Britain's hud . . . the best peacetime leader. Like ah sais, the best. She pit the fuckin unions in thair place right enough. Jist gittin bad advice, fae they cunts in the civil service n that. That's whit it wid be! Dinnae fuckin slag off some cunt ye ken nowt aboot! Like ah sais, you dinnae ken whit she did fir Britain!
— I know she's sold Rhodesia down the fucking river, Gordon said weakly, obviously a little intimidated.
There was loads of political talk, but I suppose that apart from the
So would ye like tae have fun, fun, fun.
How's about a few laughs, laughs, laughs,
I could show you a good time . . .
FUCK OFF AND TURN THAT SHITE OFF . . .
DEEPER
DEEPER
DEEPER – – – – – and although the eggs were cooked to perfection and the toast was crisp and the coffee strong, rich and aromatic, there was something strangely amiss that morning we left the hut.
It was the silence. I couldn't hear the flamingos on the lake. I picked up the binos. Nothing.
— Where are they, Sandy?
— This is absolutely puzzling. I'd like to take a closer look.
— We drove down to the shore of the lake. There was immediate evidence of carnage. I saw pieces of dead birds. Then we heard a rustling and some squawking and noted some vultures still chewing at a flamingo carcass. Sandy raised the rifle and fired a shot at them. One toppled, and the others flapped their wings and waddled away. They moved back quickly, the slain vulture joining the flamingo in providing a feast for the other birds.
— Vultures are only cannabalistic under extreme conditions, Sandy observed. — Those poor blighters must be starving.
At that point I saw a pink, swan-like head and neck which had been severed from a body. — Our flamingo colony has been routed, I declared.
— Yes . . . by the Marabou Stork, Sandy nodded sagely.
That's what.
The politics of South Africa. Shite, that's what that was to me. It caught up with us, though, caught up with us all in an even bigger way about a fortnight before we were due to head back to Scotland. I was out with Uncle Gordon at his timber farm in the Eastern Transvaal. When we stopped the jeep, he looked around over that sweeping arrangement of trees. I was a bit nervous. Because we were going away, I worried that he'd want to do more than just touch me and wank himself off. He'd kept this up over the year, although his opportunities, with us in our own place and me at school, were few and far between. This time he didn't even try to touch me. He just ranted. He seemed seriously disturbed.
— This is mine. My farm. I'm a Jubilee boy Roy, a penniless Scotsman from Granton. There I was nothing, another skinny teddy boy. Here, I count. No fucking Kaffir is going to take this away from me!
— They'll no take your place, Uncle Gordon, I said supportively, all the time my mind playing with the delicious image of him lying in the gutter in drapes outside the Jubilee Cafe, clutching a bottle of cheap wine. We went back to his ranch house and had some drinks, then went around to the woods so as I could look at some animals with my binoculars. We spotted a Moustached green tinkerbird and a Whalberg's eagle, both pretty rare in the Transvaal. Gordon's heart wasn't in it though and he soon returned to the ranch house. I was left alone to wander around the edge of the forested plantation and it was while I was stealthily trying to get closer to a shitting Bush duiker that I heard the explosion.
I almost shat myself, and I'm sure it helped the duiker's defecation too, the animal shooting off into the forest. I turned back and saw the blazing jeep. As I said, I knew nothing
It was a good thing that John was in the nick at this point. I remember the last time Gordon had ranted about Thatcher's treachery, John had been standing leaning against the patio doors. He stiffened up and turned around. — Hi! C'moan Gordon, it's no Maggie Thatcher's fault. The best fuckin leader Britain's hud . . . the best peacetime leader. Like ah sais, the best. She pit the fuckin unions in thair place right enough. Jist gittin bad advice, fae they cunts in the civil service n that. That's whit it wid be! Dinnae fuckin slag off some cunt ye ken nowt aboot! Like ah sais, you dinnae ken whit she did fir Britain!
— I know she's sold Rhodesia down the fucking river, Gordon said weakly, obviously a little intimidated.
There was loads of political talk, but I suppose that apart from the
So would ye like tae have fun, fun, fun.
How's about a few laughs, laughs, laughs,
I could show you a good time . . .
FUCK OFF AND TURN THAT SHITE OFF . . .
DEEPER
DEEPER
DEEPER – – – – – and although the eggs were cooked to perfection and the toast was crisp and the coffee strong, rich and aromatic, there was something strangely amiss that morning we left the hut.
It was the silence. I couldn't hear the flamingos on the lake. I picked up the binos. Nothing.
— Where are they, Sandy?
— This is absolutely puzzling. I'd like to take a closer look.
— We drove down to the shore of the lake. There was immediate evidence of carnage. I saw pieces of dead birds. Then we heard a rustling and some squawking and noted some vultures still chewing at a flamingo carcass. Sandy raised the rifle and fired a shot at them. One toppled, and the others flapped their wings and waddled away. They moved back quickly, the slain vulture joining the flamingo in providing a feast for the other birds.
— Vultures are only cannabalistic under extreme conditions, Sandy observed. — Those poor blighters must be starving.
At that point I saw a pink, swan-like head and neck which had been severed from a body. — Our flamingo colony has been routed, I declared.
— Yes . . . by the Marabou Stork, Sandy nodded sagely.
That's what.
The politics of South Africa. Shite, that's what that was to me. It caught up with us, though, caught up with us all in an even bigger way about a fortnight before we were due to head back to Scotland. I was out with Uncle Gordon at his timber farm in the Eastern Transvaal. When we stopped the jeep, he looked around over that sweeping arrangement of trees. I was a bit nervous. Because we were going away, I worried that he'd want to do more than just touch me and wank himself off. He'd kept this up over the year, although his opportunities, with us in our own place and me at school, were few and far between. This time he didn't even try to touch me. He just ranted. He seemed seriously disturbed.
— This is mine. My farm. I'm a Jubilee boy Roy, a penniless Scotsman from Granton. There I was nothing, another skinny teddy boy. Here, I count. No fucking Kaffir is going to take this away from me!
— They'll no take your place, Uncle Gordon, I said supportively, all the time my mind playing with the delicious image of him lying in the gutter in drapes outside the Jubilee Cafe, clutching a bottle of cheap wine. We went back to his ranch house and had some drinks, then went around to the woods so as I could look at some animals with my binoculars. We spotted a Moustached green tinkerbird and a Whalberg's eagle, both pretty rare in the Transvaal. Gordon's heart wasn't in it though and he soon returned to the ranch house. I was left alone to wander around the edge of the forested plantation and it was while I was stealthily trying to get closer to a shitting Bush duiker that I heard the explosion.
I almost shat myself, and I'm sure it helped the duiker's defecation too, the animal shooting off into the forest. I turned back and saw the blazing jeep. As I said, I knew nothing
Similar Books
